


Absolution

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Content, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis tells Porthos of his time in the monastery. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt, "Aramis could never bring up Porthos during confessions, refusing to, in some way, count him as sin. So four years and a bit later, he tells Porthos himself about all the times he let himself indulge in fantasies throughout those years. While riding the fuck out of him."
> 
> Exactly what it says on the tin.

Hands on him. They are tentative at first, but Porthos would know their touch no matter how many years have passed. He closes his eyes to it. Shivers. Opens his mouth to breathe out Aramis’ name only to find his mouth slanting over to him. 

They kiss. It is slow and unpracticed, and there is an undercurrent of neediness to it, threaded between their mouths, their teeth, their breath. It is suffocating. 

Hands on him. He arches into that touch. Feels Aramis’ fingers fan out. Brush over him. Touch at him. Feels for his pulse and presses. Porthos’ heart speeds up – he feels light-headed, untethered, undocked. He doesn’t know what to hold onto. He doesn’t know what to say. 

It has been years and yet they move like it has only been days – Aramis’ fingers tangling in his hair, Porthos’ hands sliding down his hips. Clothes falling away from them piece by piece. Aramis’ shirt gets caught on his chin and he chirps out a laugh that he swallows down against Porthos’ mouth, seeking his out to kiss him – slow and measured. Nails digging into skin. The slide of their bodies, legs tangling together. 

A moment of pause as Aramis seeks out oil, knowing where to look, even after all this time. Helping to slick up Porthos’ hands, to guide his fingers against his body. They twist up inside of Aramis and he arches, gasps, spreads his legs. The weight of him down against Porthos’ thighs – close and not close enough. Twisting his fingers, hooking them – drawing out slow gasps and keening whimpers. Words and sounds he’s forgotten and yet never forgotten. 

Few words pass between them, like this. It’s a remapping – of their breaths, of their bodies – Aramis’ mouth finding Porthos’ skin, kissing and tasting. Porthos, bent back, arching, trying to keep himself anchored enough to remember this – to never forget this. 

Their bodies, bowing and arching against each other. Aramis, head ducked. Porthos, nuzzling at his jaw. 

The slide of his cock inside him – the way Aramis spreads open before him, the way his body shudders, his breath hitching. The way he looks at Porthos with clear, heavy eyes – the slide of his smile, both open and vulnerable and yet too far away. Porthos cupping his face, kissing him again and again and again. 

“I thought about this,” Aramis admits, his breath thready and breathless as Porthos moves inside him. 

Porthos looks up at him. 

“What?” Porthos asks, confused, distracted. 

Aramis lets out another breathless laugh and says, “I thought about you fucking me.” 

He doesn’t know what’s happened to his voice, but it slides away from him. He looks up at Aramis – quiet, contemplative, uncertain how to respond. The years stretch between them and he tries, desperately, to grasp and hold on. To keep him here. To not lose him into memories, to what-ifs, to lost chances and missed roads. They were separated for so long. It still aches. An old, shallow wound that drags over his bones, down into his marrow. 

He looks up at Aramis. 

Aramis touches his face, traces his scar, cups his cheek. 

“You must believe me,” Aramis says, swivels his hips so that Porthos can’t help but jerk his hips up to meet him, pushes deeper inside him. Aramis cuts off with a small moan, ducking his head, his hands shaking as he plants them against Porthos’ shoulders. “All I could,” Aramis begins, cuts off with a breathless gasp as he strokes a hand down his cock, “All I could think about was you some nights – it was suffocating.” 

Porthos can’t respond, too weighed down with his own thoughts, his own memories of sleepless nights on the front – things thick with danger, and yet his mind constantly, stubbornly returning to the man he missed most. He spent so many nights trying not to think about him, trying to forget him, trying to move on. That wound is still unhealed, twitching at the edges, hinting at the phantom pain of years gone, years and years of absence. He tries not to dwell on it now, tries to focus on the feeling of Aramis above him – the weight of his thighs against his, the feeling of his cock sliding into him, the thick choking of love and desire pressing up from his throat, the way his body shivers under Porthos’ hands at his sides, his hips. It’s almost too much. 

“You did?” Porthos finally asks, because he can stop the words from forming. They lodge in the air between them. 

He watches Aramis breathe out. His expression furrows. 

Then he says, quietly, “I could never give you up.” 

Porthos is quiet.

Aramis whispers, “As a monk, I was to renounce all earthly tethers, all sins. But you – I could never confess to you.” 

A long-held secret, something cradled gently in their hands – that quiet whisper that twists up in their hearts. They’ve both known it well. But to hear it like this—

“I could never forget you.” 

It is an old, quiet fear Porthos knows well. One that has tickled at the back of his throat for years – a fear he has never voiced, never given words to. 

Of course, even at this—

Of course Aramis would guess it. Of course Aramis would know. 

“I thought…” Porthos whispers. His throat is thick. “I thought you’d move on.” 

An old, quiet fear. If he had done more – if he had been quicker – if he had thought faster – if he had reached out and refused to let go – if he had done something to make him stay—

Or, the worse fear: he never would have been enough to get Aramis to stay. 

Or, the old and crooked fear that breeds from these fears: that he would love Aramis forever and never see him again. That he would love Aramis after Aramis had already long since let him go. 

Aramis cups his face and presses his forehead to his. “Never. I never could. I never would.” 

Aramis’ movements take on a certain desperation, then – his thighs shift, shiver, and he thrusts down to meet him. He rides against him like he’s trying to drive his breath from his lungs. He slides his body up, rolls back down. He twists his hips. He arches his back. He grips tight to Porthos, presses their foreheads together, and kisses him like he can’t remember how to breathe and Porthos is the only salvation—

Porthos moans out, weakly, moves to meet his thrusts. Like this, Aramis rocks his hips down, drags his cock deeper inside of him, milks him like this. Porthos can only hold on. As if there were a danger of him letting go. 

And then Aramis speaks, the words tumbling from him.

“Every time I sat in the confessional, all I could think of is you—”

A shift of his hips, drawing down, taking him to the hilt. 

“And I could never actually speak the words. I could never renounce you—”

His hand falling, cupping his own cock, stroking in time to his thrusts. Sweat clinging to his brow.

“Because you aren’t, you never could be – you couldn’t be a sin to me—”

Squeezing the base of his cock to keep from coming, his entire body taut like a bow. Swiveling his hips. Thrusting down against him. Nails digging into his shoulder, his free hand gripping.

Porthos reaching up and grabbing at Aramis, dragging him down and kissing him – swallowing down those words, wanting to believe them without a shadow of a doubt. His heart hammering instead. Desperate. Clinging to him. Trying to keep him tethered there.

Aramis sighing out against his lips.

Whispering, “I’d lie in bed and think about you. The way you touched me.”

Porthos’ hands drag through his hair, knead at his neck.

Aramis whispers, “The way you’d fuck me.”

Porthos’ hands dig nails-first down his back, cupping his ass, dragging him down against him. 

Aramis moans and then whispers again, “How it felt to be fucked by you—”

Aramis, close enough now that his cock brushes against Porthos’ stomach. Aramis, rocking forward desperately – for that friction, the feeling of his cock against Porthos’ skin, the feeling of Porthos’ cock inside of him. That feeling—

“I’d come,” Aramis whispers, rocks down to ride him, “Every time with your name on my lips, Porthos. Porthos—”

Porthos digging his hands into Aramis’ hips.

Aramis, tipping his head back with a startled cry as he feels himself come, not able to squeeze himself around the base quickly enough before he’s spilling out between them. A sticky mess between them. Aramis, panting. His chest heaving. Body flushed. 

Aramis, his voice a hitching cry, rasping. “I fucked myself thinking about you.” 

Porthos, reaching up to him, pulling him down. Kissing him – again and again, sweet. Soft. 

Aramis, petting his fingers through his hair. 

Aramis, his eyes glassy when he pulls back to look at him, to press their foreheads together again. Cupping Porthos’ cheeks. 

“You could only ever be joy to me, Porthos,” he murmurs. “I could never seek penance for this.” 

Porthos’ expression flickers. He can feel it so. Aramis strokes his thumbs over his cheeks. 

He smiles at him. Porthos can’t quite smile back, but the pinch at his brow eases. Aramis presses his lips to his nose. Then his eyebrows. Then his mouth again, slow and luxurious. His breathing is ragged, his body shivering from the force of his orgasm cooling between them. 

“Fuck me,” Aramis whispers, swivels his hips again, squeezes around the cock inside him. 

Porthos, of course, obeys. Can only ever revolve himself around the sound of Aramis’ voice, seeking and never finding – finding now, after all this seeking. Rocks into him. Pulls him down. Thrusts up.

It only takes a few more moments before he comes, a startled gasp. Digs his hands into him. Thrusts into him. Presses his forehead o his shoulder, his breath a wet stamp against his collarbone. 

Aramis, petting through his hair.

“I love you,” Aramis says, breathes it out – like it’s easy, like it hasn’t been years since either of them have said it. How freely Aramis can offer his love.

He never stopped, Porthos realizes. The absence did not mean the void of love. He offered it, every day. Held it to his heart. Held it in his breath. Breathed it out in his pores, with each breath, with each thought flitting away with his prayers. 

“Me too,” Porthos says. It does not come as easily, but it is no less felt. 

Aramis cups his face. Kisses his nose.

**Author's Note:**

> If you need me, you can find me on [my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
